There are things you remember and wish they had never happened. Like being stood up by a girl. Or being clever with a bigger guy and having your ass whipped in front of friends. Things like that.
There are also things you'd cough up all your money for to make them un-happen.
I am Walter Braun, 39, copywriter, famous in the tiny confines of my profession. But what happened had nothing to do with that. I could have been a milkman or an accountant. Might even have been better that way.
I was supervising the recording of a bunch of radio commercials. They involved two grown men talking like five year old morons. Yes, they were very funny too.
I had to pee and excused myself. When I found the toilets, I thought I'd skip the urinals and sit for a while in one of the stalls, just to be alone. I sometimes do that, don't ask me why.
I don't know who the men were who entered the restroom as I sat there. They obviously used the urinals. I heard the sounds of zippers, the usual groan before the splatter of piss inside the ceramic bowls.
"She sure is something," one of the guys said. His voice sounded familiar, but I wasn't sure.
"You can say that again," a second voice answered, not ringing a bell as to who he might be.
"Never had a throat take me down that easy." The first guy.
"Goddamn, her ass is tight, man," the second one said. "And she loves it all up her hole, she even begged for it."
By that time there were only telltale last drops tingling. I heard them close their zippers again and to my surprise they even went to wash their hands.
Over the noise of the running faucets I thought hearing one of them say "...belle...he knows?... poor bastard." The other one laughed loudly. Right before they shut the door he chuckled and said: "His fault. Never marry what you can't handle."
The door closed and I was alone again.
************
Now you must know that my wife of seven years bears the lovely name of Isabelle, Belle for intimates. You also have to know that one of the voices belonged to an ex-colleague of mine. An almost-friend who dines at our table with his loving wife at least four times a year. And we return the favour about as many times.
I wasn't prepared to put my hand into a fire where the voice was concerned. I also could not be sure of the name they mentioned through the noise of the water. But my stomach did not seem to need extra information. It clenched like a fist inside my belly, sending nauseating waves of bile up my throat.
Belle is a wild thing, always has been. I'd like to say we met at college, but that might confuse you into thinking that we had something going there. No one had anything going with Belle in those days. She loved diversity. And when she dated, she didn't waste time.
Belle was incredibly popular with every male student (and teacher). She was also hated by most of the girls. Funny thing is that Belle was not at all the cliché hot looking college girl. She was and is not tall, blonde or even slim. She is a petite brunette with a lot of curves, wide hips, generous boobs. She oozes sex, though, very much in the way film stars did when they were called Betty Boop or Marilyn Monroe. Let's say she was a sex goddess from before the Great Famine.
Belle and I fucked a few times, back then. Twice at the back of my car, two more times in the tiny secret room under the roof of the old library. Belle had a mattress there. All those times were near the end of college. I had deep feelings for Belle by then. But I knew they were ridiculous. Telling her about it would have been utterly un-cool. So I nursed my pain and after graduation we lost all contact, as far as there had been any to begin with.
A few years later I had found my way up in the labyrinth of Manhattan's advertising world. One Friday night I was between dates and for potluck went to a club in Chelsea. It was one of those short-lived places where the in set had to gather. The place was insanely packed, that night, so it wasn't totally unexpected that an arm would hit mine and spill the two beers I carried all over the scantily clad girl in front of me. She screamed and turned. It was Belle.
Her eyes looked furious. She was gasping with indignity. A darkish nipple shone through her soaked little top.
After she lashed out and hit me in the face, she saw who I was and apologized. I offered her a tissue, but she grabbed my hand and dragged me from the crowd to the toilets and then on to a small closet-like room in the back. She pulled me down to her face and started kissing me hard, all wet and tonguey. Before long her tits were bare and her hand was inside my pants, stroking a rapidly rising cock. Not a minute later my throbbing meat slid over the curl of her tongue, finding the entrance of her throat.
All memories flooded back. Even my cock seemed to have a memory of its own as it happily nudged the long forgotten niches. Belle is the best ever cocksucker and soon she pulled me over the top, not spilling a drop.
She looked up, smiling radiantly into my panting face. "Hi, Walter," she said. "Long time no see."
I fucked her against the closed door after she had sucked me back to rigidity. And yes, it felt like entering heaven. She moaned and begged me to do it harder, deeper. We maybe stood there five minutes. Belle got louder, my cock almost scorched her wet, weak flesh. Then the door opened and both of us fell forward into the arms of a guard. It was right then that I came and Belle orgasmed. We had no time to feel embarrassed. We just lay on the floor, shaking and twisting.
It took me fifty dollars and a lot of excuses, but in the end we stood outside in the drizzling Manhattan rain. Belle never stopped giggling and grinning. We went into a Starbucks, marvelling at the inverse route the renewal of our acquaintance had taken. Fuck first, hello later. Belle told me how she had come to the Big Apple two months before, having been transferred by the Midwestern company she worked for. I told her my story and remarked on the fact that she hadn't changed a bit. Which she took with a deep throaty laugh.
"I love you, Walter. I really do, always have," she said, suddenly.
I choked on my cappuccino.
"I loved you madly in college, you know," she went on.
I grinned, uneasily.
"You sure had a way to hide it, honey," I said.
But she did not smile.
"Yes," she said, dead sober. "I was a fool. I am a slut, you know. I love fucking guys all the time. As many and as often as I can. My heart said that I loved you. My body protested. My body won. I am a junkie for sex, you see."
To my amazement I saw tears in her eyes. I took her hands over the table. They trembled.
"Sit with me," I said, pulling her over to my bench. I put my arm around her. Her face rested on my shoulder.
"You were my third fuck tonight," she said, choking on the words. "And that would just have been for starters." Then her voice rose, making half the people look up. "Damn!! How I hate this body!!!"
We went to my place and fucked for two hours straight. And whenever we had to catch our breath, she told me about her predicament.
"Other girls envy me, you know. And guys don't see what the problem is."
